Fans and Windmills
by Leinney Moorlyn
Summary: Sometimes a fan-fic author gets drawn into a story by some strange force of imagination, or a character... This story is based on Badge  S.1 Ep.20  and crosses over with the series of books about Hannibal Lecter as well as two CSI-Vegas fan-fics.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** **This is what happens when a character gets dragged into a story by a particularly "compelling" character, like Hannibal Lecter. I've done it before, in Snakebite (also in my story list), but this time she is aware of being the author, but not sure about the character/setting, and has trouble resolving the inconsistencies between _this_ reality and the story "reality" - only Truth will make it real. It parallels the process some fan-fic authors go through in creating their stories, getting into their characters' skins to figure out what motivates their actions.**

**I envisioned Maggie Gyllenhaal as being the actress used to play Leinney Moorlyn (much prettier than the "real" Leinney, but that's how Hollywood does it... She just happens to be the right height and age with the right eye & (natural) hair color (and she can always wear a wig if it's short). Perhaps the eyes are a little lighter blue (they should be medium greyish-blue that turn aqua when moist).**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

_The fan-fiction author known by her penname__,__ Leinney Moorlyn__,__ sighed as she felt another immanent story lurking for the right time to be told. Her long legs itched to run away but there was no place far enough to escape. It did no good to ignore it, for the story would gather strength until the urge to write overwhelmed her. Sometimes stories would come over weeks or months in nightly-recurring dreams or as daydreams that would steal her attention from mundane life. She would find her alone-time thoughts completely overridden by the story until she wrote everything down and finished it. Once__,__ a fan-fic story had been thrust upon her from a character completely outside her usual genre – it had been so strong that betwixt sleeping and waking she felt it was completely and frighteningly real. She never wanted to repeat the experience, but she knew the Muses' pull was strong enough for that still to be a possibility…_

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><p><strong>Fans and Windmills<strong>

Detectives Eames and Goren exited the unmarked SUV, diagonally across the street from the murder scene. Ambulances and patrol cars littered the street directly in front of the brownstone residence, preventing any other vehicles from moving closer. Blond Eames was dressed in a practical pantsuit under her long woolen coat, her petite 5'2" body dwarfed by Goren's 6'3" broad-shouldered frame. Goren was dressed to the nines in his usual professional suit, tie and overcoat. They stood by the car for a minute while Eames pleaded with Goren to behave himself. Major Case squad had been called in to investigate as a special favor to the mayor—one of his accountants in an apparent murder-suicide—and in this politically-charged climate, they needed to handle this discreetly.

As they took stock of the neighborhood, Goren spied a woman sitting on a bench directly across the street, a few doors down from the scene. Late twenties to mid-thirties, the moderately attractive brunette was clad in purple suede sneakers, faded jeans and a v-necked sweater the same shade of twilight blue as the slivers of sock visible between the shoes and jeans. She was watching intently as the officers and medical personnel moved up and down the stoop. Curiously thoughtful, he continued staring until he caught her eye as she glanced away from her vigilance. What happened next was interesting indeed.

Goren's sharp eyesight detected a widening of the eyes in surprised recognition. Then, the woman's gaze roved over Eames, before momentarily freezing fearfully as her jaw dropped to gasp.

"Person of interest across the street. Possible runner," he murmured. He casually stepped into the middle of street, Eames at his side.

As predicted, the woman stood up and walked briskly left along the sidewalk, away from the crime scene. Eames trotted with a "Hey!" and then ran as the woman broke into a sprint, expertly dodging pedestrian traffic between there and the T-end of the street. Knowing the neighborhood, Goren took a shortcut through an alley unimpeded by pedestrians, his long legs eating up the distance. He was satisfied by getting to the end of the elbow-shaped alley a second before their quarry—she was glancing back over her shoulder towards Eames and didn't see him coming.

Static electricity crackled as she thudded into his arms; her chin brushed his badge askew as her long hair flopped up into his face momentarily, before whiplashing back behind her. He caught her wild blue eyes with his solid caramel gaze, and almost instantly he felt her biceps relax; her breathing slowed, although she still trembled slightly. Her pupils dilated as her brows furrowed slightly in puzzlement, and Goren knew he could spin her around like a puppet and place her arms behind her back. Eames got there just in time to see the woman's startled face as she was turned around.

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><p><strong><em>AN: please review; this is the first piece I have published here and am still learning the ropes of how to edit and publish. I wonder if the storyline is working well enough..._**


	2. Chapter 2

_Leinney was quite surprised to learn Goren's eyes were such a light shade of brown—all the actor profiles described d'Onofrio as having "dark brown" eyes. The caramel coloring was quite beautiful. It distracted her briefly from the situation at hand. She could kick herself for running, but what else can one do when the characters spot you before you have a chance to figure out where you are? While Lecter might have been responsible for yanking her into the scenario, as only He could do, she couldn't blame Him for the pickle she had put herself in by running. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She liked Goren and Eames too much to bear having them see her as a suspect. She hoped she could think fast on her feet and not blurt any of this craziness out to them—that would not fit with canon. It's impossible to believe that one is just a character in a story someone else is writing...  
><em>

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><p>"Why are you running?" Goren demanded as he handcuffed her and quickly patted her down for any weapons. Getting no immediate answer, he finished, finding nothing but an unopened packet of clove cigarettes in the back pocket of her jeans. He darted back to join Eames, holding onto the suspect's elbow while stooping slightly down to eye-level. "You were scared," he prompted further. He gave her a moment to answer, smiling at her in encouragement.<p>

"Am I," she caught her breath, "Am…I under arrest?" she asked quietly, disregarding his smile.

Goren's head twitched in annoyance. "Uh, yeah," he raised an expectant eyebrow, willing her to answer his question in return.

"Why—on what charge?" she asked politely, ignoring his tone and tacit intimation. She seemed slightly in awe, as a deer-in-headlights expression never quite left her face. At first he assumed it was subconscious infatuation, but her expression didn't change when she looked at Eames. Perhaps she wasn't used to strangers talking with her, but that would be quite odd to find here in New York City.

"Resisting arrest," Eames answered firmly.

"But, I didn't resist when you stopped me," the woman pleaded calmly with them, "Why would you arrest me in the first place? I wasn't doing anything illegal." Goren saw the emotions roiling beneath the surface, although she maintained an even voice.

"You ran away from us. We don't need any other reason," asserted Eames.

The woman stared at Eames and then back at Goren. "What about _habeus corpus_? What's your, uh, probable cause?"

Goren and Eames exchanged humorous glances. Goren jerked the suspect's elbow loosely, inviting her to join in the joke. "What? Are you a lawyer?"

Instead of smiling with them, her face started to turn green and she swallowed before answering, "No, I just paid attention in history class. You need a reason to arrest me." She shifted uncomfortably, seemingly certain of history, but not so much of the current situation. Goren thought there was a curious lack of defiant attitude to go along with the words—cooperative in tone, but not in deed.

"She's not a lawyer," Eames declared to Goren, although aiming her words pointedly at the suspect. "If she was, she'd know that we don't have to make a primary charge stick in order to get her on resisting arrest." Eames turned her focus squarely on the woman, who listened politely, returning eye-contact. "It's a Class A misdemeanor—you can get up to a year in jail for it. Resisting arrest is more than just fighting when we're handcuffing you. It also includes fleeing—and lying to police. But…" Eames paused, changing to a slightly friendlier tone, "the statute also allows us to let you go without charge if we're convinced of your innocence." Goren knew that Eames was playing hardball, then softening to point the easy way out through cooperation.

The woman's shoulders slumped. "Look, I'm just a waste of your time here. I was just sitting on that bench, resting, thinking… I was going to jog down that street when I saw it was blocked by all those cop cars and ambulances. I was trying to figure out my route. I'm very sorry I wasted your time." She looked back and forth at each of them anxiously, clearly hoping they would let her go.

Goren laughed, "C'mon, you expect us to believe you were out jogging in these clothes? A fine knit sweater—what is that? Mohair?—you want Merino wool for sports, not Mohair— and jeans?—and those Rocketdog sneakers are meant for fashion, not running."

She glanced down at her clothes as if in surprise, then, looking back and forth at Eames and Goren skeptically, she shrugged. "And you're…both wearing…business clothes," she joked drily with a slight twitch of her nose, a brief twinge of an eye, but not even a hint of a smile. "Apparently, none of us needs the latest Stepford jogging suit to get some exercise."

Goren sniffed noncommittally; he actually enjoyed her dry humor, but something still bothered him. "No, it's more than that. You know us, don't you," he stated, carefully watching her reaction. He wasn't disappointed; her shocked blink told him the truth, along with the dawning realization that she had given herself away.

"Detectives…Eames and Goren?" she breathed out courageously, as if dreading the truth. To Eames' startled affirmation, Goren detected a flash of the same terrified expression he'd seen from across the street. _Curioser_, he thought, cocking his head at the suspect.

"So, why do we terrify you so?" Goren asked gently, before Eames could react. It was an odd terror, peeping out only at unexpected moments. And why did this woman calm down so much when Goren pegged her with his normally off-putting stare?


	3. Chapter 3

_She thought a string of curse words at herself, but dared not say any of it. If Lecter was behind this—and she knew He was—then He might kill someone for 'being rude,' just to punish her. Then He'd be back out of retirement, and that would be…very bad, to put it mildly._

_But she couldn't help thinking the curses—Goren was too good at sussing things out to fool him easily. Better not to lie to him, as Goren could smell it a mile away; besides, Lecter didn't like lies either, and risking His ire was...unwise. She knew she had to calm those fears, or she might blurt something she shouldn't. She had to keep it all inside her head—if it wasn't spoken, it wouldn't be written, and therefore not happen, she reasoned. It was a lot harder than she had realized._

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><p>Finally wresting her gaze from theirs, the woman focused on the cracks in the sidewalk around her feet for a moment before murmuring, "I'm afraid of things only in my own head." It seemed to be a mantra, helping her calm irrational fears. Goren wondered how much self-help therapy the woman had experienced.<p>

"So, you know who we are, but we don't know you. What is _your_ name?" Eames blurted out.

Goren stooped lower to get a better look at the woman's response. All she did was close her eyes tightly in a pained wince and remain silent.

"No answer?" Eames' impatience showed. "That's also resisting arrest. Now we can just take you downtown and get you fingerprinted." Goren led the woman by the elbow through the less crowded alley back to the Sherwood residence and handed her over to a patrol team before going inside. The suspect offered no physical resistance, but kept her silence after Eames mirandized her.

While Eames went upstairs to three of the bodies, Goren took the basement, where the first body had been found. The entire family had been slaughtered, best-guess by the husband, who had bludgeoned his wife in the kitchen, then gone upstairs to smother their nine year old son and six year old daughter in their bedrooms, before falling onto a kitchen knife in the master bedroom to complete the murder-suicide. Eames always found it hard to deal with these sorts of crimes.


	4. Chapter 4

'_I should've realized they'd ask my name.' she told herself silently. 'What role has Lecter put me in this time? Am I Zoë? Or…? But what should I say? If I guess the wrong name, I'll be lying to them, opening up a whole new can of worms. If I tell them I don't know, they'll send me to the psych ward—and He certainly would be able to get in there and mess with me. If I stay silent, they'll keep me in a jail cell, which is at least better than the psych ward—and I doubt He'd want to go into a police station...' _

_On the other hand, they might bring in a shrink if she kept completely silent. Perhaps she should answer questions that had nothing to do with her identity, and answer them rationally. Then they wouldn't have any reason to bring in a shrink or send her to Bellevue or wherever.  
><em>

_Leinney felt the handcuffs digging into her wrists, nauseating her with pain. Her left wrist was particularly excruciating because of the nasty bruise that had somehow transferred into this liminal world. 'How did He do it? How could He know?' Absentmindedly, she switched the cuffs to be in front of her, just to be more comfortable. It occurred to her that she could escape custody with such skills, but then she would be in more trouble, and she should constrain herself to the parameters of the story to keep it believable._

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><p>Sergeant Gibbs processed the prisoner, putting her into one of the detective squad's holding cells. The sergeant was not sure which detectives had arrested her, but they couldn't have thought her very dangerous, since she was cuffed in front of her body—a little unusual for suspects coming into the Major Case squad. Despite offering small talk to set them both at ease, Gibbs saw that the woman was unaffected by it, seemingly lost in the daze of her own thoughts. However, other than not providing her name, she was quite cooperative, if a little slow responding to the required procedures. A full search produced nothing but the lint in her pockets—no money, nor ID. Gibbs loaded the fingerprints into the database, but with this bottleneck of a search queue, it would be a while before results would be ready.<p>

Goren and Eames arrived back at the squad room to research leads while they waited for Forensics to process the pile that had been collected. Captain Deakins informed them that their female "suspect" was already processed and waiting for them to interview her.

"So, was she really just sitting on a bench several doors down from the crime scene?" Deakins inquired. At their nods, he continued, "Then, why did you arrest her?"

Eames explained the suspicious behavior, running away from them and not producing any ID nor even a name for them to corroborate.

"Maybe she's just too shy around the police," Deakins suggested. "Gibbs said she seemed to be a newbie to our procedures—most likely no priors will show up with the fingerprints. You know we can't hold her without evidence of a crime. We already know that the father did it. She could be a witness, but I doubt it—and even if she is, it's too soon in the case for a material witness warrant, so we can't hold her very long."

Goren explained, "It was more than that—she didn't just run away. She wasn't just shy or afraid—she was utterly terrified of us—particularly us. And," Goren emphasized, "and—she knew our names."

"Now, wait a minute," Eames objected. "She could have heard us talking to each other. And it's not hard to figure out that badges dressed in plain clothes are detectives. Nothing saying she didn't pull a fast one on you, using your own tricks of observation." Eames smiled sweetly at Goren as she said it. She enjoyed it the rare times the mighty Goren was fooled, even temporarily. It brought him back down to the human plane.

Goren considered it for a moment, but argued, "I don't think so. She was terrified both when she saw us outside our car and when I pressed her on it. The rest of the time, she was cautious, possibly a little afraid, but not terrified. There's something going on here, although I can't put my finger on it yet."

Eames and Deakins exchanged patronizing glances, tacitly agreeing to go with it for the moment; Goren's hunches often turned out true in some facet.

Goren pretended not to notice their sidelong looks, preferring to move the conversation forward. "You're right, it looks like the husband committed this multiple homicide—nor does it appear she was inside the house when it happened—there was too much blood at the scene, and she would have had blood on her clothes if she were there. And if she had cleaned up, she'd smell more like soap and less like she was up all night in yesterday's clothes, keeping herself warm by a fire in a trash barrel."

"So, why don't we find out why she was staring so intently at the Sherwood residence?" Eames suggested. "Maybe she knows something about what happened. Maybe she saw something that might shed light on why Sherwood might do this. We can always let her go later."

Goren gripped his leather binder in agreement and allowed Eames to lead the way into the interrogation room, while one of the sergeants fetched their Jane Doe from the holding cell. Deakins slipped into the adjoining room to watch through the one-way mirror. If he thought the detectives stepped out of line, he would stop the interrogation of course, but there was still a thread of legal standing on the charge of resisting arrest, and they might convince her to help.

The woman walked quietly in, scanning the room quickly with her eyes, but patiently waiting as the uniformed officer fumbled with his keys to unlock her cuffs. Goren stood up and pulled out a chair for her, facing the mirror. He noticed she studied the mirror for a moment before tucking her legs under the chair as Goren pushed it in, then walked around the table to sit opposite. She sat comfortably straight, leaning slightly forward as she folded her small hands loosely on the table in front of her. Goren noted how fresh and un-chipped her cerulean nails were; she couldn't have been on the streets very long—probably just one night.


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter refers back to some of Leinney Moorlyn's other fan-fics.**** Particularly: Snakebite, which fan-fics her own work, Interpreting the Evidence, as well as Tony Hillerman's Joe Leaphorn/Jim Chee mysteries, and Ian Flemings' 007 books. All spiral in on each other!**

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><p><em>Looking into the mirror, she didn't recognize the face—it could be any one of the tall brunettes with long wavy hair, blue eyes and an oval face. Why did she keep describing all her female characters as if they were her? She could no longer distinguish between them. And why would Lecter dress her up in such a manner? Casual jeans, but chic mohair sweater and designer sneakers that couldn't withstand the beating sneakers are supposed to take? Although, without a coat, she had to admit the sweater kept her warm in the chilly late-winter air. But the fresh manicure was just too much—she never painted her nails—maybe it was because of the blue toenails that Zoë's daughter painted on her indulgent mother? Did that mean she was supposed to be Zoë in this cross-over fan-fic? Perhaps the fingerprints would confirm it, just as the Federal Marshals had found her in Las Vegas through a print search.<em>

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><p>"So, um," Goren began as he got out his pen and notepad. "oh—what was your name?" He pointed the pen, glancing sideways at her, but the woman just raised surprised eyebrows as she squinted a little suspiciously at him in response. She didn't say it, but he felt she thought: <em>'does he really think I'm that stupid...?'<em> "How about Jane Doe, then?" He paused with a nod. "So, Jane, why won't you tell us your real name? We've got your fingerprints—it's only a matter of time before we find out who you are." The woman merely perked up her interest in listening to him.

Eames folded her arms. "Waste of our time. Let's just park her back in the holding cell and get back to our paperwork. She can just sit and stew while we take our sweet time with her prints."

Goren detected a glimmer of sheepish disappointment in the woman's eyes as they flickered toward Eames.

"I agree," the suspect/witness concurred, shifting her gaze between Goren and Eames. "This investigation of yours has nothing to do with me; I'm not at all involved. I told you this was just a waste of your time. And I'm sorry for that." Goren studied the mystery woman's affect and micro-expressions, but could detect no lie in her statements, although she still seemed anxious over something else she was hiding—or protecting. The latter seemed more likely to him, as her wide eyes told him what her words did not.

"Sorry enough to tell us your name?" Eames asked sarcastically. "Just tell us, and then we'll stop wasting each others' time."

The woman sighed, glancing quickly at the mirror, before replying in a formal tone, "It would be unwise for me to answer that question at this time." She seemed sad to say it, looking even sadder as Eames reacted.

The detective spluttered, "Unwise? Do you _know_ how unwise it is to waste—"

"Hold on, Eames," Goren stopped his partner. He could see the woman already understood the gravity of her situation, and suspected she still had something to say, but not about the identity question—yet. He changed tactics. He turned back to 'Jane' and caught her eyes again before asking more gently, "So, what is it you're afraid of?"

After blinking slowly at him several times, the woman dropped her gaze to the table, staring into space. "I'm afraid of a lot of things. Lying, for instance."

Eames snorted, "You didn't seem to have any trouble lying to us on the street—you weren't out for a leisurely jog."

The woman squinted at her and her nose twitched with slight humor, "No, actually I _was_ planning on jogging past, but the street was blocked. But you're right, it wasn't a leisurely jog; that wasn't where I wanted to be at the time."

"So, tell us the truth—the full truth," Goren coaxed.

She sighed, "It's not that simple."

"Then tell us what is complicated," Goren opened his arms receptively.

The woman grimaced, staring into space, torn over her decision whether or not to cooperate, "It's just that, what I believe is true, I know can't be true—or maybe what I know is true I can't believe—anyhow, how can I expect you to believe me if I can't?" Her agitated eyes paced back and forth between them for a moment, as her hands clung more tightly to one another.

"Try us." Eames countered. The woman just kept biting her lower lip.

"Let's start back at the last question. What is scaring you? Why were you so terrified of us?" Goren demanded.

The women glanced at Eames and then back at Goren, as her hands relaxed again. Knitting her brows in puzzlement, she declared, "Of you? No..."

Goren pounced, "So, you're not afraid of us, but you were scared when you recognized us." He thought he saw some of that terror creep back before she blinked it aside, holding her breath. Goren still couldn't put his finger on it.

Eames filled in the gap Jane's silence left, "Or was it that you recognized us as detectives arriving at the scene and you hadn't yet made up your mind whether to talk to us?" The woman's gaze shifted over to Eames, who continued, "And then when Bobby, here, questioned you on the street about recognizing us, you remembered overhearing our names and added the assumption that we were detectives."

The woman regarded Eames for a long moment, before exhaling with a brief nod. "You look relieved," Goren observed. She heard him, although she continued to look at Eames. "Relieved—about your excellent hearing being found out? Or being let off the hook for recognizing us?" Again, she blinked back an emotion he couldn't quite read as she focused noncommittally on the empty air between them. "Look, we can't help you unless you tell us what's going on! We can protect you if you need it…"

Despondent eyes clapped on his last sentence, aching for that protection, and Goren thought he had finally found the leverage they needed to get her talking.

"I don't think you can," she replied, lowering her eyes with obvious regret. She searched the empty air before quietly concluding, "I-I think I need to consult a lawyer." She frowned, wincing in anticipation of their response.

As expected, Goren heard Deakins tapping on the mirrored window. The magic words ended the interview. Slamming his binder on the table in frustration, Goren slid his chair back to stand up. Although she didn't flinch at his binder hitting the table, her cheek twitched, so he pressed, "Ok, I guess we'll go with your plan, Eames. Put her back in holding until a public defender shows up—I hear they're backed up with clients—by then the fingerprint query will be done. And we'll know who we're dealing with."

As he walked out, passing Sgt Gibbs coming in to take her back to holding, he pondered the glimmer of hope he had seen in her face. _Was that a delayed reaction about the lawyer or was she actually hoping for the fingerprints to come back? It made no sense that she would keep her identity secret, yet hope for fingerprint ID. Unless…_ Shaking his head, Goren, put the thought aside. For a person whose face was so easy to read, she sure was frustrating to interrogate.


	6. Chapter 6

_Returning to the holding cell area, Leinney regretted not being able to help Goren and Eames. It was sweet of Goren to offer police protection—he was smart enough to be able to protect her from the typical bad guy, but he would be hard-pressed to protect her from Him. Lecter had the power of a demigod, able to run the police in circles and kill anyone without breaking stride nor pricking conscience—and He had the power to drag her like a puppet into this fan-fic. She couldn't pit Goren against Him. Besides, she could not risk mentioning Him for fear He would come out of retirement to terrorize more characters. Goren kept asking what she was afraid of—it made sense, because she could not think of Him without the pit in her stomach growing colder, darker, more menacing. It must show plainly on her face—she could not hide such a gut-twisting terror. He haunted her dreams, and she could not wrap her brain around how such a dark soul could come into being._

_Perhaps if the lawyer could get her out of this predicament, she would have space to figure out how to help Eames and Goren—she couldn't violate canon, so it would be tricky giving them info. Besides, she had a habit of folding laundry while mentally going over her shopping list while watching these episodes, so she wasn't sure yet which episode it was, if any. Why had He chosen this particular show? Goren must be the key—Lecter must be bored in His retirement, looking for a worthy adversary to get back in the game. She blanched. She could NOT let that happen. Canon dictated that Eames and Goren could not be put into such lethal circumstances._

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><p>While they waited for a public defender to become available, Goren and Eames visited Sherwood's accounting office. What they found there put Goren on a different tack of inquiry. Sherwood's secretary told them he had a neck and shoulder injury—one that would have prevented him from using the baseball bat on his wife. A phone call to the coroner confirmed the extent of the condition; it would have been physically impossible for Sherwood to kill his wife in that fashion.<p>

Goren raced back to the squad room to take a better look at the carpet pictures. Sure, enough the pattern of the vacuuming showed that the killers had erased their own footprints. That none of the Sherwood's footprints were on the carpeting in the kitchen and bedroom, coupled with the pattern of vacuuming that lead back to the exits, all pointed to a killer well aware of forensic evidence. Beyond that, Sherwood had a ticket on his record from the previous year for soliciting prostitutes, but it was conveniently written by a cop who had died six months ago, yet with no paper trail to follow back to any witnesses. Taken altogether, the evidence made a grim reality obvious: cops did it. More than one cop must have been involved to have gas-lighted Sherwood so thoroughly. A civilian would have been hard-pressed to alter the police records so meticulously.

Was that why Jane Doe wasn't talking? Is that why she had stared at the one-way mirror so intently? Wondering which cops might be hidden behind it? Did she recognize a cop coming out of the Sherwood's place? Did she know about a conspiracy amongst unknown dirty cops? Serendipitously, a public defender had just appeared to represent her.

This time, the attorney and client were waiting in the interrogation room after a private consultation when Eames and Goren entered the room.

"Here, let me make it a little simpler for you," Goren started, pacing around the room. "You were at or near the Sherwood residence and you saw something."

Although she stared at the table this time, hands folded in her lap, her head jerked slightly—Goren was encouraged to continue.

"Then, as you sat on the bench, trying to figure out whether or not to tell the police, we surprised you by parking our car directly across the street. You recognized us and were scared. Was it cops you saw? Is that why you think it's, uh, _unwise_ to tell us your name, thinking they might find you somehow? We _can_ protect you…" He paused a brief moment before remembering to ask, "did they have a vacuum cleaner with them, by any chance?"

Jane Doe continued staring intently at the table as he spoke, although she squirmed slightly in her seat. Goren was hitting close to home.

Her attorney responded on her behalf, "Look, my client provided you with a plausible explanation for her actions. She was jogging through the neighborhood and sat down on the bench to try to figure out a detour around the street that had been cordoned off unexpectedly. She suddenly figured it out and continued on her way. You chased after her and arrested her without proper cause—and you didn't even identify yourselves as police officers during the chase, so she wasn't resisting anything. It was an illegal arrest, and now you're harassing her as a potential witness. Where did you get on her fingerprints?"

Goren shook his head as the database search had found no match, noting that the woman looked up at him with great interest—but not alarm— in the answer—_was that disappointment? surprised disappointment, maybe?_ _  
><em>

The lawyer pressed the point, "Do you have anything proving that she's been involved in any criminal activity whatsoever? If not, it's time to stop detaining unless you want to be sued for false arrest." The lawyer started gathering his paperwork, pushing back his chair.

"Hold on. Hold. On." Goren said irritably. He pulled a file folder from his leather binder. From it he took pictures of the crime scene, plopping the one of Mrs. Sherwood on the table right where the woman was staring. "This…was Mandy Sherwood, a part-time nurse—she was making breakfast for her family when she was bludgeoned to death." He plopped a second photo on the table next to it. "Ron Sherwood, an accountant, knifed in his bedroom as he was getting dressed for work." Third photo plopped. "William Sherwood, nine years old, smothered in his bed." Plop. "And little Sarah Sherwood, six years old, also smothered in her bed." He poked a finger on the table in emphasis, "_This_ is what we're talking about here, nothing else."

Jane Doe gasped and blanched at the first photo, quickly averting her eyes as it registered what she saw. The second photo furrowed her brow and chased her gaze away again, while her jaw and shoulder trembled. She stared longer at the kids' photos in horror before she looked away. As her eyes began to water, she struggled to control her breathing by sucking in her lower lip. Goren had hit home.

"These little kids, they didn't deserve this." Eames emphasized, her voice cracking a little with emotion; the woman shook her head in agreement.

The lawyer turned the photos over, saying, "Shame on you. You think she's a witness and you're harassing her like she's the suspect. We're leaving." Goren was impressed at how astute this pro-bono lawyer was. Wouldn't be stuck doing these cases for long...

Acting on another hunch, Goren stopped them at the door. Stooping down to catch her wet gaze, he handed Jane Doe a business card. "I'm really sorry; your lawyer's right—I was a bit harsh—but only because it is important we stop whoever murdered that family—those…_innocent_ kids. If you change your mind, could you please contact me?" Blindly, she stuffed the card in her pocket, but nodded only once in reply. _She must know something,_ he thought, _if only because she doesn't deny it and half-agreed to contact me._


	7. Chapter 7

_Those photos had really unnerved her. Now she knew which episode it was, she realized she had missed seeing them during the episode, but they were entirely real to her now. It finally dawned on her how viscerally real this story was to her. She couldn't help tearing up over the loss of innocent lives, like crying in a movie, but even more so. Especially the kids, as Eames had pointed out. How could anyone be so cold as to kill little kids? Had they witnessed their parents' death? It took the conspirators quite a bit to set him up with the fake prostitution charge and the online dating frameup, so why didn't the killers just plan the job elsewhere? It had to be more than one killer, getting both parents at the same time, but who did it? She didn't know—the TV episode was not clear on that point, and some of the conspirators themselves didn't seem to know the full extent of their involvement. Easy to deny first-hand knowledge of it, she reasoned. Then, again, those kids just weighed on her mind. The killers had to be caught soon, before another tragedy occurred. She no longer thought of this as completely unreal, so what should she do about it?  
><em>

* * *

><p>Staring at the woman's back, retreating to the elevators, Eames opined bitterly, "That's the last we'll see of her."<p>

"Don't be too sure—five bucks says it's under an hour," Goren betted.

"Nothing doing! That's a sucker's bet, knowing you," she snickered as she sat down at her desk to sort paperwork.

But Goren saw something that piqued his interest. Just before hitting the hallway, the mystery woman was stopped briefly by Detective Owens. He said something to her that she shrugged off before continuing on her way. Goren wandered over, waiting until the lawyer and client had caught the elevator, before quizzing Owens.

Owens seemed a little embarrassed to be asked about it, but he admitted, "I was thanking her for helping me earlier with one of those witnesses to the drive-by this morning."

"Oh?"

"Well, there were so many witnesses, that I didn't realize the guy I was talking to was deaf—y'know, I was looking at the form I was filling out and all. I was just about to get tough with the guy when she leaned over and whispered that I might have better luck with a sign language interpreter. Gibbs pulled her away before I realized what she had said, so I couldn't thank her then. But I was able to snag Williams from the 9th floor to help me apologize to him, so it's all good now. The guy obviously didn't hear the shots, but he caught a lot more details than the other witnesses after seeing their sudden reactions. So, why did you arrest her? She seemed so nice and thoughtful..."

"Actually, I'm banking on that…" Goren murmured staring at the elevators. Then, catching Owens' raised eyebrows, he explained, "She took off running away from the Sherwood crime scene, but it turns out she's just a reluctant witness. I'm pretty sure she'll change her mind after thinking about it."

Goren didn't have to wait long. He made a few phone calls before receiving one from the lobby half an hour later.

"Detective Goren," he answered routinely.

"It's me, uh," the voice paused. "_Jane_. Could we meet somewhere?"

Goren figured she was paranoid about the involvement of cops in the Sherwood murders and wanted to avoid hanging around the police station. _Although_, as he thought to himself, _it isn't really paranoia if there really is a reason to be cautious_. He checked the time—5:23. "Can we buy you some dinner?" he asked, figuring to break the ice. "It's the least we can do to make up for everything—there's a great deli only a dozen blocks from here…"

"Oh. Uh. Yeah, sure, thanks," she agreed, with a little embarrassment in her voice. "I'm, uh, downstairs in the lobby."

Goren grabbed his suit jacket, overcoat and upon second thought his lined windbreaker as well to offer the woman in this winter weather. He told Eames, "I figured she might be hungry. Deakins said they only gave her peanuts out of the vending machine and some water when she was in holding—she refused the standard ham & cheese sandwich and soda they offered first. No wallet, no money, and pro-bono lawyers don't buy dinner. I'm also betting she has nowhere to go—there's something going on with this woman beyond this case. Why else would she be on the street without a coat or a purse or any ID?"

Eames nodded, "You might be right; something seems to be weighing on her heavily. Whatever it is, maybe helping her will convince her to help us?"

They met the woman in the lobby, and she was grateful for the windbreaker, although nervous about it. Thoughtlessly, Goren set out quickly with his long strides towards the deli, forcing Eames to trot to keep up, although he noticed that Jane Doe's strides simply lengthened to match his. In fact, he noticed also that she was a lot taller standing up than sitting at the interrogation table. Her legs seemed to be as long as his, but her head was half a foot shorter. Goren slowed down for Eames' sake.

When they got to the deli, Goren opened the door for the two women, saying "You'll like this place. Sandwiches are dinner portions, fresh ingredients, and the pickles are famous."

Jane Doe flashed him a polite not-quite-smile in acknowledgement, but seemed preoccupied about something other than food. Eames began the order with pastrami on rye.

"What would you like?" Goren prompted.

After scanning the menu board quickly, the woman replied, "Egg salad on pumpernickel, please." It was the least expensive sandwich on the menu.

"Make that two," Goren told the deli chef, "And add a half dozen pickles and a pitcher of iced tea." He looked around at the women for affirmation of the drink choice, receiving nods in reply. Eames found a secluded booth in the back. Goren chatted up the deli while they ate to make light conversation. Jane Doe nodded at the appropriate moments, but offered no contributions of her own, apparently studying Eames and Goren as they talked.

When they got to the pickles, Jane Doe chuckled softly with a puff of expelled air.

Goren noticed, smiling encouragingly, "What?"

She shook her head, half smirking as she stared sideways at the wall, "Don't ask me anything you don't wanna know…"

"I wanna know," Goren urged.

She looked up at him sharply before relenting. "It's absurd, I suddenly got the idea that I don't want a pickle along with the mental image of you as a _four foot cop with a five foot gun…_" she closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, shaking her head quickly in embarrassment.

"…_who used to be six foot tall until he was met at the bottom of a mountain by a writing singing weirdo freak?_" Goren finished, amused.

"Yeah. I told you ya didn't wanna know," she replied sheepishly. "I'm sorry, it was rude of me. Don't ever ask me what you don't wanna know—'cause I might just tell you." She massaged her temples, before sighing, "I guess I really needed that laugh." Then she took a pickle, chewing on it thoughtfully. "This _is_ a good pickle, though—Thanks! And the sandwich was good, too—thank you."

Goren silently noted that she hadn't quite laughed, but replied to her earnest gratitude, "No problem. So," he switched to the intended subject, "you've decided to help us?"

Jane Doe looked at him soberly, "Yeah, well...—Self-preservation aside, I'm pretty sure what I could tell you, you could easily find out from much better sources, but…whoever could do _that_ to the Sherwood family is a skin-walker who needs to be stopped, so I'll do what I can."

"A skin-walker?" Eames prompted for an explanation.

"Um—morally crazy. Didn't just step outside moral boundaries but deliberately leapt." She stared absently at the remains of the pickle in her hand before letting it fall forgotten on her plate.

"Skinwalker is a Navajo term," Goren explained to Eames. "They have a different idea about criminal behavior – it's a sickness that needs to be cured to restore a person to natural harmony. If a person commits a crime, they go to a shaman for a healing ceremony. But skin-walkersare_ 'ánt'įįhnii_"Goren pronounced the Navajo word easily, but Eames had trouble hearing the strange syllables, "—practitioners of the Witchery Way—they don't want to be healed and can't be cured. Usually, they murder a family member to gain their power, breaking social taboo and therefore permanently stepping outside of society."

Jane Doe stared peculiarly at Goren during his explanation before nodding, "Yeah, but I meant it only figuratively, not literally. Bad analogy, really." She paused before continuing more earnestly. "I, uh, need to know something. Hypothetically." She kept her attention on the empty air in front of her for most of the discussion that followed, only looking at Eames and Goren when she spoke to them directly.

"Hypothetically," she picked back up, addressing Goren first, "you wake up one morning to find a pink elephant in your living room. And, for the purposes of this situation, you know you haven't had any alcohol in several weeks. Yeah?"

"OK," Goren encouraged. "Point being that there's no obvious explanation for this elephant?"

She nodded, "Right. So, you're talking to this pink elephant, who reveals information about a crime that was committed a couple of hours before you woke up—detailed information. Then you hear someone pounding on your door. You go to answer the door, but when you look back over your shoulder, the elephant is gone. It's your partner at the door, wondering why you haven't been answering your cell phone. So, you invite her in, thinking about what just happened, and as you're gathering your things, you see your cell phone has been ground into the floor so deeply that only a two-ton elephant could have done it."

Both Eames and Goren were smiling at the ridiculous hypothetical situation. A joke?

"So," she continued, "As you fail to explain to yourself how you could have possibly done that much damage to your phone—even intentionally—Detective Eames starts telling you about a new assignment—the crime is exactly as the pink elephant told you, and you know immediately who did it. Your subsequent investigation corroborates everything the elephant said."

She looked at Goren, "What do you do? Do you arrest the culprit? Do you tell your partner about the elephant?—she's already laughing, so you know she wouldn't believe you."

In between chuckles, Eames protested, "I don't know about that—some days I might believe he was getting information from a pink elephant."

"Right brain thinker," Jane Doe commented straight-faced, although the corners of her eyes wrinkled with amusement.

Laughing automatically, Goren thought about why the pink elephant story might be relevant. Then he answered carefully, "I'd probably keep an open mind, test the pink elephant's ideas, use the info to get a confession from the perpetrator, and then replace my phone."

The woman then focused on Eames, "So, what would you do if you caught a glimpse of the pink elephant behind your partner, and then you noticed him looking at the cell-phone embedded in the floor right where you saw the elephant standing? Assuming, of course, that you also haven't had alcohol in weeks."

Grinning, Eames responded, "I see your point. I might actually comment that his cell looked like a two-ton elephant had stepped on it. And then Goren would probably say something about the pink variety of elephants and we'd know we both saw it."

"But would you tell your other colleagues? Your boss? They might think you were both out partying too much…"

After a moment, Goren stopped smiling and became serious, although he used a gentle tone, "So, you see yourself as this pink elephant—you don't want to get involved. There's something you're holding back because you think we wouldn't believe you. Perhaps you also don't want to get on the witness stand in a trial against cops?"

She shrugged, "I'd make a lousy witness—I don't know anything first hand…but I could… I could point you in the right direction, I guess. Maybe save some time..."

"So, is that why you don't want to give us your name?" Eames asked. "Because you don't want to be called to testify in court? Or is it that you have a history that you don't want us to find out?"

She grimaced before replying, "not quite."

"Or are you afraid the cops involved in this will come after you?"

Her frank eyes told him he was at least partially right. "It's a distinct possibility, given the circumstances," she admitted, although Goren could not see any fear connected with her logical assessment. _Very interesting. Was she not afraid or had she masked her fear with logic and formality?_

Goren could tell she still wasn't ready to talk about her identity, so he asked, "How can you point us in the right direction, then?"

She took a napkin and gestured toward his heart with her right hand ready to grasp a writing implement. Goren reached inside his jacket to get the pen for her, silently noting that she had observed the small, vertical lump in his breast pocket. On the napkin she wrote in legible handwriting:

**Mancuso**

**LeGrand**

**Leuco crystal violet**

Then she pushed the napkin in front of Goren, who studied it a moment before handing it to Eames, then stretching his neck, thinking.

"Is that it?" Eames demanded, putting the napkin on the table in emphasis. "No verbs?"

Goren regarded Jane Doe's earnest, but nervous nod, and spoke for her, "So, you know this information but you doubt we would believe you if you explained how you know?"

Her eyes answered before her nod and quick "yeah." She seemed slightly, but pleasantly, surprised by the accuracy of his summary.

"Are you claiming to be psychic?" Eames asked.

The woman considered it a moment before shaking her head, "No, but that would be more believable. I'm pretty sure about this," she tapped the table in the direction of the napkin, "but the quality is about the same as hearsay—secondary or tertiary information at best—not really useable in court. I don't know I could link them in any specific narrative accurately."

At their skeptical faces, she continued, "Look, I wasn't really paying attention at the time, and I thought it was fictional, until…until you showed me those photographs—and even then..." she trailed off, staring in the distance for a moment. "I only really know that they are involved," she pointed at the names. "I'm pretty sure these two don't have the moxy to have k-killed anyone in that manner, because of how I remember their names, but I know they're involved—along with quite a few others I don't know."

"How do you remember their names?" Goren prompted. The answer might give them more of a clue about this mysterious woman.

"Well, Mancuso means 'sinister' in Sicilian—y'know, left-handed," her eyes wrinkled in a smirk, "—and Monsieur LeGrand," she pronounced the French seemingly flawlessly, "means Mr. Big, and I remember how ironic I thought the names to be..."

Looking at each of them in turn, she asked, "you want more?"

"Please." Goren answered, curious as to what more there could be.


	8. Chapter 8

_She pulled her head out of the storyline for a moment, unsure of how much to reveal. Everything she said needed to be backed up by logic, and only what she already knew was true. And nothing to suggest she saw this on TV—that wouldn't be very believable, anyhow. No need to worry about Goren guessing anything. Just make sure it doesn't appear like she was actually there. Perhaps it was time to channel a little MST-3K-like commentary..._

* * *

><p>"I'm sure you already know more than I do, which is more conjecture than anything." She composed her thoughts before continuing, "OK, those photos you showed me—looked like Mr. Sherwood…k-killed his wife—and k-kids—before c-committing suicide." The slight stutter was almost unnoticeable. Her jaw and shoulders tensed up slightly, recalling the photos briefly in the air in front of her before blinking them away. "But, you think he was murdered. There was something odd about those photos, too…they didn't seem quite real…" she stared into the air with a pained expression, thinking. "That's why you asked about the vacuum—it was too neat. Like maid service came in afterwards and with a macabre indifference…c-cleaned up around the bodies. That's why you think cops did it; they knew enough to eliminate contradictory evidence. A maid service probably wouldn't even be noticed in that neighborhood."<p>

Goren was impressed, pausing to think about his next questions. Her stuttering indicated how emotionally difficult this was for her, underneath her calm façade. He definitely didn't want to spook her any more than she already was.

As he was thinking, the woman opined, "Mr. Sherwood must've been a really upstanding citizen, then."

"Oh?" Eames prompted.

"Well, they went a little extreme trying to destroy his reputation—k-killing his innocent family and pinning it on him. If they could have found any dirt on him, they'd probably just use it to blackmail him—or k-kill just him and expose the dirt in the process to disgrace him. Easier, less noticeable. You said he was an accountant?" To their nods, she concluded, "Going through all that effort to discredit an upstanding accountant? Then I'd follow the money."

Now it was Goren's turn to study the woman peculiarly. With apparently less information than they had, she had come to the exact same conclusions.

"Leuco—what do you know about Leuco?" Eames tapped on the napkin.

"Um, it's like Luminol, isn't it? _Leucos_ is the Greek root, meaning white or colorless, and I suppose it would turn violet in the presence of…hematic enzymes?" Jane Doe answered easily, although Goren noticed the hesitation before saying 'hematic'—her lips had touched in that pause as if about to say 'blood' but substituted the cold scientific adjective instead. Distancing mechanism?

"And how would you know about Luminol?" Goren was also curious to know how much forensics the woman knew. As she had pointed out, the vacuuming indicated the perpetrator had professional knowledge of forensics.

"It's on TV all the time. Don't you ever watch TV?" she frowned at each of them in turn. "Perhaps not much—in your line of work. No time."

Then she gasped with sudden insight and frowned again. "Was Mr. Sherwood ambidextrous?"

"Why?" Goren asked, intrigued. He wracked his brain to remember details that would prompt the question. Normally he was the one to notice handedness.

"Well, from the...stains on his shirt, it would appear he didn't...swing like a southpaw," she hesitated, then pushed out the words fast, with emotional difficulty. "But he supposedly...held the knife with his left hand—his right hand...is too clean. And even if the photo were reversed, the shirt stains would be reversed, as well." She shook her head to clear it, as if this level of detail were unimportant.

She still held the pen, now poised over another napkin, as if considering what to write.


	9. Chapter 9

_It startled her that she would notice the handedness of the victim - but recalling the photo, and how clean it was, she thought more about the lack of blood on Mr. Sherwood. It was pooled neatly on the carpet under his left hand, but the right hand had only rivulets of blood and no smearing from using the knife. And since Goren was a southpaw, he had to switch the swing of the bat to his right hand during a demonstration, which she remembered seeing on TV, along with his wearing the ridiculously small shirt to prove the point about the blood spatter being odd and therefore staged, albeit quiet well.  
><em>

_As she held the pen over the napkin again, Leinney wasn't sure if she should test out her theories on which identities of hers Lecter may have chosen. As cops, Goren and Eames had better access to tracking down names and identities. But how to get them to do it without lying to them? Names and birth dates might work, along with birth cities, but what if by doing so, she gave Lecter her real information? Could he bring her family into it? Would he be able to insert it into the story? Was he that powerful? Would he already know the real information? It would be a gamble.  
><em>

_She just wasn't sure about it, yet, shaking her head mentally. Then she remembered part of the ringleader's name from the episode. She just couldn't remember the whole name. Still, if it would help them catch the conspirators, it would be worth a try._

* * *

><p>"Something more for us?" Goren prompted. "How 'bout your name, hm? We don't need to put it on any reports. We get it—you're afraid of whoever killed those people—heck, I'm afraid of someone who could do that, and I'm a cop." He raised his eyebrows and put his face near the table to catch her eyes; she obligingly raised her gaze allowing him to pick his head up.<p>

She shook her head, but seemed to wince a little at his disappointment in her lack of full candor. "If, as I suspect, this corruption goes deeper than you can imagine, what's to say someone doesn't overhear you talking about me with each other? What if someone you trust in the department is overheard? Or is inadvertently part of it, even? Better paranoid then sorry..." she sighed apologetically, shrugging her shoulders as if there were nothing she could do.

After a moment she turned her attention back to the napkin, talking it through, "There's another name, but I don't remember it as clearly. Maybe it might help, though." On the napkin, she wrote: _**?–RAND–**__?_ "I'm not sure about this one. Rand-something or something-Rand? Rand McNally?" she kept shaking her head. "No…Randall McMurphy? Ayn Rand? McKenna? Mac? Tully Mac? No, not even close. All _rand_om associations that don't fit…I dunno. I'm sorry, not much help. But somehow it's important, even though I can't remember clearly enough."

"You know Tully Mac?" Goren asked sharply. The man's reputation as a free-lance mob hit man was known at least as far as New York City, although he lived in New Jersey, but he had not been active for several years. Rumor had it that he had fled jurisdiction after a botched job—another rumor had it that he had chased a rival out to Vegas for botching that job and framing him with the crime bosses.

She stared at him in surprise. "_He's_ not as fictional as Johnny Tarr?" she stared into space. "I know _of_ him, I guess. He's…an Irishman—with a thick accent. Irish-Catholic. Rides a Harley Davidson and frequents bars where there are Harleys outside. But I'm pretty certain he has nothing to do with this murder—has a strict if strange code of honor—won't harm women and children, especially mothers—Mother Mary cult, and all—but he has no compunction about killing people who cross him even slightly. Maybe even feels _obligated_ to keep his reputation by killing them. That's why he just does business with men. Not someone I'd want to meet in person." Her eyebrows furrowed.

Since what he knew about Tully Mac agreed with her assessment, Goren let the matter drop; instead he asked casually, "Where are you staying?" She shifted uncomfortably. "So we can contact you if necessary…" As she thought about how to respond, Goren concluded compassionately, "You need a place to stay, don't you? You've been wearing those clothes since at least yesterday, and your hair smells like smoke—like from one of those barrels the homeless use for warmth."

Her slight wariness told him he was right. "I know somewhere safe you could stay—no police, so you don't have to worry about any corrupt cops—it'll be safer than our safe houses—what do you say? Hm?" As he saw hope glimmer in her eyes, even as she hesitated, he pressed on with more details. "He's retired—I'm the only cop he knows." Seeing her stiffen, he reassured, "He just a pussycat, though. Not that anyone knows this, but he's gay if that's what you're worried about."

That wasn't what worried her. "What does He look like?" she breathed, terror creeping in her eyes.

"What? Um, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, about my height." She relaxed slightly at the brown eyes, but then sighed out the breath she had been holding when he mentioned height. "Why does it matter so much?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, grunting nervously. "Sorry, I was reminded about…it doesn't really matter."

"What exactly are you afraid of?" Goren pushed, but with a gentle voice.

It took a moment before she shrugged, answering, "Like everyone, lots of things. Little things. You know. You're probably afraid of things, too." She kept talking while her eyes searched the air for something to say. "You're a cop. You probably wake up in the morning afraid you won't be able to figure out who killed someone—that they'll kill again before you catch 'em—yeah? But you brush those doubts and fears away and just keep working. No big deal. Nothing to fear but fear itself. Just stupid fear."

Goren smiled at the amateur attempt to turn the conversation back on him. She wasn't ready yet to open up completely, so he'd have to skirt the issue a little to draw her out. "Yeah, I suppose so. But here's the thing. I've been a cop for a long time, and I've arrested many types of people. The innocent ones are scared when they're arrested; they usually just tell us the truth to get out of jail. Criminals might be afraid, but they usually cover it up with defiance and bravado—or else their ego gets in the way of their fear. But you?" He shook a finger in her general direction while looking away briefly. "You're neither egotistical nor defiant. And while you were afraid, as you said, not of us. How _do_ you know we're not in league with whoever killed the Sherwoods?"

"You're decent people not dirty cops," she replied easily, as if it were obvious.

Goren and Eames exchanged glances before Goren asked, "As true as that may be, how is it you're so sure?"

She thought a moment. "Because if you were that kind of cop, you wouldn't have bothered bringing me in to the police station—that alley gave you enough privacy for a beat-down if you were so inclined. But you don't abuse your authority for power's sake; rather you use it serving the public interest—you're more concerned about finding out what happened than pinning it on the most convenient person. And given the demographics of your office, you're not likely to be part of the good-old-boys' club but rather got your jobs on merit than favor," she said to the air between them, before focusing on Goren.

"Because your mother brought you up to be a gentleman—and since you keep those old-fashioned manners you probably still eat Sunday dinner with her every week… That, and the disgust in your voice when you talked about corrupt cops."

She turned to Eames, "And the emotions in your voice when you talked about W-William and S-Sarah, tell me you're the kind of woman that would do anything for your own child's wellbeing, and by extension anyone else's child…—and that's why you can't stand what happened to those kids." Her eyes hardened when she spoke of the Sherwood children, although Goren saw the profound sadness flit across them as she stuttered ever so slightly. She was containing her emotions with a partial poker face, but she couldn't hide the expressions in her eyes.

"I don't have any children," Eames remarked wryly. She thought about Goren's mother, whom he called daily and visited weekly.

"Still, you'd be that kind of mother." She said confidently. "Am I wrong?"

Shaking his head a little, Goren continued, covering his discomfort about bringing his mother into the conversation, "OK. You also said you're scared of lying to us, but I think you're more scared of telling us something—something you still haven't told us. And I think you're torn because you really want to tell us, right?"

Having listened intently to his analysis, she thought a moment before responding, "Mm. I, uh, I really have to go use the ladies' room. Excuse me."


	10. Chapter 10

_Did she really want to tell them something? Uh, duh. Sure that would be wonderful. If only she could/should—if only it would make things better, which it wouldn't. 'Oh, excuse me, detectives, you are all a bunch of characters in a TV show and you're all fictional.' Yeah, that would go down well...all the way to the psych ward. Where HE would be waiting...  
><em>

_Despite the turning of the conversation to other topics, Leinney had to admit that Goren's "friend" really rattled her. Did Lecter get into this story as Goren's friend? No. It couldn't be - Goren's description was of a much taller man. That's just silly. But she wouldn't put it past Him... _

_She splashed cold water over her face to help her get a better grip on herself. Panicking would do her no good, and they might still want to commit her to the psych-ward._ _Lecter just put her in this situation to test how she would react. He might show up later, but not now. She just needed to remain calm and muddle her way through this.  
><em>

_So she told herself to keep calm and sane-acting..._

* * *

><p>Eames almost followed her, but Goren tugged on her sleeve to wait. Shaking his head, he said, "let her think about it for awhile. There's no exit from there, no window or anything. And I've got a hunch. I think she's afraid of a man—average height or less, probably grey hair, blue eyes. It has to be someone she knows, because Captain Deakins fits the description and she didn't give him a second glance. A family member. Or acquaintance."<p>

Eames nodded, but asked, "Whose place are you stashing her at?"

"Oh, um, an ex-army buddy of mine. A green beret. I figure he could handle anything that might get out of hand. He's retired, so he can watch her, and he'll hold on to her since we can't. I already called him and he agreed."

"You know a green beret who's gay?" Eames shook her head, not really surprised.

Goren shrugged, "not that I know of; he likes women as far as I've seen, but he's disciplined enough to go along with the charade for her comfort."

He jumped up that moment and strode off down the hallway at the back of the deli. He ambushed Jane Doe as she was coming out, leaning a forearm casually on the wall to corner her. Looking up at him, she wasn't scared, but alert and curious, with a little of the awe that hadn't left her since the morning—she ogled Eames with the same peculiar awe. He took advantage of the moment, "So, how old were you when it happened?" When she merely listened, squinting inquisitively at him, he pressed on, "Who is this grey-haired gentleman with blue eyes, and, oh, about your height, give or take?"

Terror now pinned her in place; Goren dropped his arm and stepped back to give her breathing room. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she could squeak out, "You've seen_ Him_? Here, in New York?" Her eyes tried to dart past him, past Eames into the restaurant behind.

"No." Goren assured her. He felt a little guilty pushing it, but they really needed to get this woman talking soon. He suspected that the man who terrified her so much had not done anything sexual, because she was neither nervous nor flirty when he invaded her personal space. Depending on the age at which it happened and the nature of the sexual abuse, victims invariably reacted in one of those two ways. And it probably wasn't violence against herself, as she wasn't nervous when cornered. Perhaps a witness to extreme violence? He remembered her affect when recalling the gory pictures of the Sherwoods—as well as her slight stammering. Violence bothered her a great deal.

"So, who is he?" Eames pressed.

"Someone you shouldn't mess with," she sighed, speaking quickly in agitation, but blinking her eyes slowly in relief.

"Why?" Goren prompted.

"Because Nicole Wallace is a pussycat compared to_ Him_," she said bitterly.

"Nicole Wallace?" Goren was confused.

She blinked. "Oh, sorry, you don't know her, then. Um… say we were in a parallel universe, one in which you," she pointed to Goren "were working on the other side of the law." She paused a moment before summing up for Eames, "He's _that_ frightening, only a hundred times worse."

She blinked again, this time slowly, jerking her head as if shaking the cobwebs out of it. "Just…just, oh. Never mind." She rubbed her temple. "I'm sorry. Forget about it—it's only a recurring nightmare—that only _seems_ real when I'm tired." She seemed embarrassed to admit. "I'm sorry to bother you with TMI."

"No, it's fine," Eames assured her, as if apologizing for Goren's lack of manners, frightening her like that. He sometimes hit the psychological indications right on the mark, but not so well with the overall explanations .

As they left the deli, Goren turned to Jane Doe and asked, "So, do you smoke?" To her blink of surprise at the _non sequitur_, he pulled out the packet of clove cigarettes he had taken when they arrested her. "We forgot to give these back to you."

"Thanks," she said thoughtfully, turning the pack over in her hand.

"You didn't answer my question. Do you smoke?" he insisted. She raised her eyebrows quizzically instead of replying, so he smiled but pushed suspiciously. "See, here's the thing. You had an unopened packet of cigarettes in your back pocket, but no lighter. Could be in a missing purse with your wallet, or…or they aren't your cigarettes." He blinked at her humorously, willing a conclusive answer.

"Possession is nine-tenths as they say, so doesn't that make them mine?" Jane Doe squinted back at him amiably, although her mouth didn't quite break into a smile.

"You also didn't ask to smoke all day after you were arrested. Smokers ask for a cigarette at least once, especially under stress. C'mon, it's a simple question. Do you smoke?"

"Have you stopped beating your wife yet? _That's_ a simple question," she slyly pointed out, but continued before he could get irritated. "I'd say it's pretty clear I'm not addicted to cigarettes."

"So, they're not yours, then," he concluded.

"Of course they're mine—they were in my pocket, as you say." She seemed puzzled by the conversation, trying to figure out what he was getting at.

"Then why not light up?" he asked innocently.

Her nose twitched drily as she blinked disbelievingly. "As you noticed, I have no lighter and no money to buy one."

"Oh," he laughed, "well, I have one in my pocket—here, you can just have it."

"Thanks." She opened up the packet and politely offered some to Eames and Goren. Eames held up her hand "no," but Goren took one with all the delight of contraband, much to Eames' disgust. Jane handed the lighter back to him, but he lit hers first before lighting his own. She cupped her hand around the flame, sucking in hard enough to get it lit before letting the smoke out through her nose, with no coughing or sputtering.

Handing her the lighter back again, Goren took a long drag before hacking it back out. "Wow, these are pretty strong."

"Mm," she agreed. "But I like the taste." She took a longer drag on the cigarette and held it a thoughtful moment before breathing the smoke out through her nose again. Goren had to admit that even though she wasn't addicted, she certainly had a practiced hand at smoking—he discarded his theory that the cloves belonged to another person. Probably an insignificant thing, anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

_She breathed an inward sigh of relief. Did she smoke? Were the cigarettes hers? She couldn't answer honestly without saying_ "I don't know"_—and that would lead to whether she knew her own name, which would lead to psychiatric questions... Thankfully, she could say she liked the taste and demonstrate by smoking that it wasn't beyond credibility that the cigarettes were hers. She wondered why Lecter thought it was so important to place in her back pocket? Why did he pick this particular clothing ensemble? Most of her heroine characters smoked cloves, so it didn't give her any clue as to identity...  
><em>

_One thing she noticed about the cloves was they made her more introspective. Helped her calm down and be more thoughtful, philosophical even. She continued to smoke as she chewed on these questions. She often liked to smoke when she wrote, as it helped her to think more holistically. Maybe that's why He gave them to her...what could He want her to write?  
><em>

* * *

><p>"So, shall we go?" Goren asked.<p>

"Go where?" she seemed confused.

"To my friend's place."

"The offer's serious?" She arched her brows in surprise.

"Why not?"

She frowned. "I don't think I have any more to tell you…why would you go to the trouble…?"

"That's OK. You've given us some leads. And, as you said, it's a... 'distinct possibility' that you need protection."

"Against _these_ people? I haven't given you my name, so it's pretty unlikely that people who so obviously staged a murder scene would be capable of finding me."

_So obviously?_ Having been the only investigator to have noticed the subtle inconsistencies, Goren was surprised at her assessment, but shrugged, "Perhaps…" before pulling out his last persuasive argument, "You _do_ need a place to stay, don't you?"

She didn't deny it, but considered for a moment before shrugging back, "I guess it beats a cardboard box with newspaper blankets."

As they walked, the woman smoked thoughtfully. "Why the kids?" she choked out, her eyes staring off into the distance with knitted brows.

"As you said," Eames replied with bitter conviction, "they are morally sick."

The woman shook her head sorrowfully. "Erasing a man and his progeny? Like the Princes in the Tower."

Goren wracked his brains for the reference, remembering Thomas More's account of Richard III's nephews being smothered in their beds in the Tower of London, to keep Richard on the throne, albeit for only a couple of years. It was near the end of the War of the Roses, with the Lancasters and the Yorks each trying to wipe out each other's lines of succession and seize the throne of England for themselves. Richard III was the last of the feuding Plantagenets, replaced in the end by the Tudor dynasty.

After a few more contemplative puffs on her cigarette, her subdued voice rang through the chill air, "That takes a profound hate. Hatred for everything he was and what he stood for: a goody-two-shoes accountant who didn't need corruption to be financially successful." The astute conclusion nevertheless didn't sit well with her.

She finished her cigarette in silence, field-dressing it to put it out before finding a garbage can. She said, "Y'know, I realize it's obvious."

"What's obvious?" Goren asked, guessing internally anyway.

"That there's something else...unsettling me, which is why I need a place to stay. Although, given the circumstances, it's quite possibly a good thing." she shrugged. "But it's not like I've...done anything...illegal. It has absolutely nothing to do with your investigation. It's...um...a personal thing I need to work out. Not your purview."

"Perhaps we can help…" Eames offered, hoping to get a more complete picture of this odd witness. She had opened up during dinner, so Eames tried to continue the dialogue.

She shook her head. "Thanks, but that can of worms would only distract you from your investigation, as you said. And it's important you stop these corrupt cops ASAP—before they do it again. What they are driven to do is monstrous."


	12. Chapter 12

_The cigarette had calmed her down enough to give her some more breathing room with the detectives. Eames herself had given the rationale for 'not distracting them from the investigation' so Leinney figured it would work until she sorted some of this out. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, and then a hop, skip and a jump out of the kitchen before she got burnt..._

* * *

><p>Eames thanked Goren for dinner and took off for home, while Goren took the woman over to his friend's apartment.<p>

"Bobby!" The man gripped Goren by the forearm, pulling him into a brief, back-slapping hug.

"Johnny, this is…Jane Doe. Jane, this is John Dunn."

"John Donne? As in the Elizabethan theosopher and poet?" she exclaimed.

"Uh, yeah, but it's not spelled the same. My parents were academics with a sense of humor."

"_Any man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind_," she quoted solemnly.

"_and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee_," John finished. "Yeah, Meditation Seventeen, _No man is an island_," he smiled.

"He was the one who wrote _Diathanatos_, right?" she asked.

"I can see you'll get along well together," Goren laughed.

"Yeah," John nodded. "Uh, Bobby mentioned you might be wanting a shower. I've left some sweats and a t-shirt on top of a towel along with other stuff in the bathroom—through there and to the right. Just help yourself to anything in there that you need."

She flashed a half-smile of gratitude before hurrying down the hall.

Goren watched the door close before murmuring to John, "We suspect cops are involved in this apparent murder-suicide, but I think that she's scared of more than that. Some kind of trauma, but she says it's a personal thing that has nothing to do with the case. Main thing is to make her feel safe—hopefully she'll feel safe enough to start talking. Maybe we can help her—maybe she'll help us if we do. Keep an ear out for any hint she might drop about herself, will ya? Oh, and she's terrified of an older man, average height or shorter, blue eyes, grey or white hair—she won't talk about it, so I don't know if it's recent or childhood trauma."

"Don't worry," John smiled. "Remember, I was the one who interfaced with the locals during our missions. A lot of them were in the thick of traumatic circumstances, but I was able to get valuable intel out of them anyhow. I'll see what I can do here."


	13. Chapter 13

Bobby and Johnny got caught up on old news while they waited for Jane Doe to finish. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom with wet, combed hair and Johnny's extra clothes. The shirt fit her broad shoulders, but hung like a tent to mid-thigh. On the other hand, the sweatpants on her long legs stopped short of her bony ankles. As she padded across the floor, Goren could now see her only jewelry: delicate filigree-silver rings on the second toe of each small foot, accenting the shiny cerulean polish on her toenails. At first it appeared that her feet were bruised, but it was an odd tan-lined design instead. Some type of strange sandal, he surmised, although it seemed odd to have at the end of winter. He turned away to hide the grin he felt at seeing the clothes that so ill-matched the wearer.

She stopped mid-stride for just a beat to watch both men in turn, before continuing and commenting deadpan, "I take it I clean up OK." Goren stopped hiding his grin. The woman kept a straight face, gazing at Goren's face a moment before concentrating on her host.

"Thank you for your gracious hospitality. I found everything I needed, and then some. I, uh, took the liberty of using the washing machine in there, since there was an extra-small setting…"

"That's perfectly fine," Johnny replied easily. "My mother hosted exchange students all the time."

She blinked at him a few times before saying, "My condolences on your recent loss."

"How did you know?" Goren asked abruptly while Johnny stared at his guest.

It took a moment for the woman switch her focus to the detective, and then another moment to formulate a reply, directed towards John, "You used the simple past tense when speaking of her, and she restocked perhaps three to six months ago. She was a most gracious hostess."

"Thank you. Yes," Johnny agreed. "Four months ago she was hospitalized with walking pneumonia but it was too late and she never recovered."

Looking down in the awkward silence that fell upon the room, Goren was surprised by something that had hitherto escaped his notice. He stepped toward the woman, putting his right thumb inside her right palm. Another jolt of static electricity passed between them, stiffening her arm momentarily as her startled gaze shot to his face. Waiting until she relaxed, he gently turned her palm upward, revealing a yellowing bruise from the inside of her elbow down to her wrist.

"How did this happen?" he asked softly, searching her face. She searched his face as well before answering. With her sharp observation skills mirroring his own, he had to be on his toes, but it wasn't hard for him to project the sympathy he actually felt.

She looked down at her arm for a moment, saying "It's not as bad as it looks," before staring vaguely off into space. "I, uh, smacked my wrist against some concrete." She slowly disengaged her hand from his loose grip, indicating a spot on the wrist-bone behind her left thumb with an elongated backwards 'C' between her right thumb and forefinger. "It left a big goose-egg," she indicated a raised bump about an inch above her wrist, "before the bruise spread here," she swept her hand across the inner forearm. She flexed her fingers easily. "It'll heal eventually," she dismissed.

"Where did it happen?"

She searched the air before replying with a twitch of her nose, "I don't think I could identify the exact piece of masonry, so I doubt you could arrest it for assault and battery or anything…"

Johnny and Bobby both chuckled, but Goren was reminded of how she turned greenish when he questioned her on the street. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"Of course," she said, squinting back at him.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you when I jostled your arm," he said.

She shrugged again, "That's OK. You didn't know. I didn't tell you."

"Why not? I could have loosened the handcuffs…" he said contritely. He felt bad, but concluded that was the reason why the uniformed officer had re-cuffed her hands in front of her.

She stared at him, askance. "You ask me that in a case involving corrupt cops?" She shrugged. "We were discussing other matters at the time." She quickly changed the subject, "Do me a favor, will you?"

"Sure."

"Please…" She paused before asking what seemed to be a big favor, "Don't lie to me anymore—I'm having to trust complete strangers right now, and that's kinda difficult and it makes it that much more difficult to trust when you lie…" she bit her lip uncertainly, struggling to maintain composure. Moistened eyes told Goren how personally important this request was to her.

"Lie? What lie?" Goren asked, resolving not to get caught in a lie again (lest he risk losing any rapport with her).

"Neither one of you is gay." Her flat statement brooked no room for argument.

Johnny belly-laughed, but Goren found himself apologizing again, readying his excuse. "I'm s—"

"'S'all right," she cut him off shaking her head. "I understand why you would say so, but at this point that sort of thing is pretty far from my mind."

"If there's anything I can do to help you with…whatever's on your mind…?" Goren offered quickly. He hoped to gain some clue to help him ID her—but of course he'd leave it out of his paperwork until they caught the dirty cops.

She shook her head, "It's a personal thing I need to work out, nothing to do with your investigation."

"That's OK. I work on several cases at the same time

"Well, maybe," she paused, becoming a little quiet. "I-I could use your help with something—in your spare time, of course. By then, I should be able to tell you my name. _Do ut des?_"

Goren raised his eyebrows at the choice of Latin phrase—not _quid pro quo_ as in legal terminology, but still the Roman concept, 'I give that you give,' to denote reciprocity. "Fair enough. What is it?"

She walked over to the phone and picked up the pen and paper next to it. After finishing writing, she tore off the piece, replacing the pen and pad neatly and handing the paper to Goren. It said:

**Women & Infants Hospital**

**Providence, RI**

**September 12, 1969 4:40PM**

**Bozeman, MT**

**September 13, 1968 (homebirth)**

"Two babies, girls—can't be too many born on those dates in those places. It's easier for a police detective to find the names of those babies than it is for me. That's all I need."

"One of those is you?" Goren asked. "Or a family member you're tracking down?"

She wasn't surprised by the questions, but shrugged noncommittally, "I promise I'll tell you who I am when you tell me those names."

Goren wasn't sure about the ethics of using his resources for a civilian purpose, but he figured he would at least look it up for his own investigation. "I don't know, I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," she said, suppressing a yawn.

"The guest bedroom's through that door," Johnny said, pointing. She nodded gratefully to him and disappeared through the proffered door.


End file.
